


Superkanerstitious

by MajaLi



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, Gay Porn Hard, M/M, Magical Accidents, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4041748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajaLi/pseuds/MajaLi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh. My. God." Patrick can't keep the grin off his face as he pops to his feet and darts over to stand in front of Jonny. "Jonny. Jonathan. <i>Tazer</i>. Are you telling me that dye job goes <i>all the way down?</i>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Superkanerstitious

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gay Porn Hard 2015 (WCF, G7). Set during an unspecified future season, because forget Kaner, _I_ really am that superstitious.

Patrick is a little superstitious. He'll cop to it – he's a hockey player, it comes with the territory. So when he passes a wishing well in a Chicago mall, the week before playoffs begin, he doesn't think twice about digging in his wallet for a quarter.

Or, well, he does think twice, but only to put the quarter back and fish out a silver dollar instead. It's _playoffs_ , man, this is not the time to be stingy. Patrick flips the coin into the water, mouthing a whisper of a wish as it arcs through the air.

"I wish we win the Cup this year…and that people stop saying my mullet is the worst flow on the team," he adds hastily, as the coin plops into the water, because it can't hurt to push the envelope a little. It sends up what seems like a disproportionate amount of glittering spray, plinking loudly off the bottom of the well as though yanked down by a magnet. Patrick turns away, brushing a few droplets off the front of his shirt, runs his hand through his hair, and promptly forgets about the entire thing. He has a barber's appointment to get to, after all.

\-- -- --

At practice the next day, Saader struts into the Blackhawks locker room sporting an honest-to-God faux hawk: the sides and top of his head trimmed down, with an untouched, two-inch-wide crest of dark hair in the center that runs from his forehead to the nape of his neck. He's left the crest ungelled, so that it lists to one side like a cockscomb, and the tips are bleached and dyed in an alternating pattern of platinum blond and fire engine red. 

It's absolutely hideous.

"Do I want to ask?" Duncs steps into Sadder's path, hands on his hips. Saader beams.

"Taking it to the next level!" he crows. "I couldn't copy Kaner forever – right? – " he leans around Duncs to give Patrick a thumbs up, which Patrick of course returns, " – but I wanted to do _something_ this year. Felt like the right time to branch out, you know?"

"Uh-huh..." Duncs still looks skeptical as shifts aside to let Saader get to his stall, but it seems he can't help himself; as Saader passes, he reaches out and messily ruffles his hand through Saader's remaining hair. Saader yelps like he's been shot and makes a grab for Duncs' curls, which…okay, it's not the _first_ time two or more Blackhawks have devolved into a hair-pulling flail-fight, but that doesn't mean it's a regular occurrence either, damn it.

It's enough of a commotion that Patrick almost doesn't notice Sharpy slinking through the door with a baseball cap pulled down low over his forehead. Which is weird, because Sharpy is a hellacious grump about helmet hair, and is also a polite Canadian boy whose mother raised him better than to leave his hat on indoors. Patrick thinks about letting him get to his stall in peace…but that would violate so, so many of the lessons Sharpy has taught him over the years, and who is Patrick to reject the wisdom of his elders?

"Sharpy!" He scrambles out of his stall and slings himself over Sharpy's back, deliberately knocking the hat askew. "You're later than usual, buddy, what’s up?"

"Long morning," Sharpy mutters, clearly trying to extricate himself from Patrick's grip. Patrick is having none of that. 

"Ooooh, I gotcha," he leers, leaning their heads together so he can jostle Sharpy's hat again. This time Sharpy actually reaches up and claps it more firmly to his head, hand sliding over the brim and pushing it even further down. "Say no more, sir, say no – aha!"

The moment Sharpy's hand falls to his side, Patrick snatches the hat from his head…and makes a high pitched noise of sheer glee, the kind usually associated with small children and shiny objects.

To be fair, Sharpy's head _is_ incredibly shiny. In fact, it more or less resembles a cue ball: round, shiny, and almost blindingly white. In this, Sharpy's propensity to tanning does him no favors; Patrick could practically draw a magic marker line along the border where his lovely, lovely hair used to be.

"Oh my god," Patrick wheezes, making a token effort to hide his laughter behind Sharpy's stolen hat. "Dude. Dude, what _happened_ to you, did Abby final get tired of waiting for the bathroom or – or – oh my _god_ – "

"Can it, Kaner," Sharpy says, snatching his hat back. He stuffs it in his bag, though, instead of putting it back on his head, and lifts his chin. "This haircut is courtesy of my baby girls, who were very taken with their experience at Locks for Love yesterday."

"You donated your hair to Locks for Love?"

"No, the girls decided that _they_ should donate my hair – since it is, you know, the most perfect hair in the League and all." Sharpy preens a little. Patrick socks him in the arm. "Ow! But…yeah, I woke up this morning looking like Freddy Krueger's demented cousin. Abby got her stylist to come over and take a look at it, but there wasn't really much to work with, so…" Sharpy shrugs.

"I think it looks great," Saader calls, ever loyal to his A, from where Duncs has him trapped in a headlock.

Sharpy glances over, takes in the faux hawk, and visibly winces before responding, "Yeah, man. Yours, too!"

Patrick can hardly believe his luck.

\-- -- --

As practice goes on, it becomes evident that Sharpy and Saader may not, in fact, have lost their minds, and that some deeper force is at work. Hossa looks perfectly normal when he shows up, but he keeps taking his helmet off and scrubbing his hand over his head as though it itches. After a few minutes, there are tufts peeking out of the back of his helmet, and by the time warm-up stretches are over, his usual crew cut has spread into a lion's mane of shaggy, tawny hair that spills from the crown of his head, sprouts from the back of his neck, and follows his spine until it disappears under his jersey. After a quiet word with the equipment guys, which Patrick sadly can't overhear but which results in one of them hustling out of the rink with a determined look on his face, Hossa seems content to leave it be.

Then, after shootout drills, Corey tips his mask up to take a drink of water only for it to flip off and go skittering down the ice as a riotous mass of dark curls explodes out from under it. Patrick gapes, then whoops triumphantly and immediately dubs it the "Crow-fro," scooping up Corey's mask on the end of his stick. Corey groans and snatches it back as soon as Patrick is in range, turning the mask over in his hands as he tries to puzzle out how to get it back on. After a few moments, he shrugs and pops it over his head as usual; the Crow-fro gathers itself up neatly under it, and by the time Corey has pulled the helmet down and settled the guard over his chin, Patrick can't even tell its there. He shakes his head. Goalie powers, man.

By the end of practice, the entire team is sporting some sort of insane tonsorial artwork. Shawzy ends up with a short mohawk, the sides and front delicately shaped to look like there's a fuzzy, brown lizard clinging to his head. Patrick will swear up and down that it _hisses_ , muffled under the helmet, every time Shawzy finishes a check. Seabs' hair just grows and grows until it reaches almost to the small of his back; Duncs produces a hair elastic from somewhere in the recesses of his gloves and braids it back for him like a swashbuckler. Nik Hjalarmsson looks fairly normal, until he takes off his helmet and Patrick notices the detailed outline of Thor's hammer – the one from the Marvel movies – shaved into the back of his head from ear to ear. Darling's high-and-tight is untouched, but his beard looks like it belongs to a lumberjack, or maybe a yeti, and Antti's smile is all but hidden behind a set of shaggy bangs that nothing but his mask can hold out of his eyes for any length of time. Even Teuvo's been swept up in it: his neat, blond side-part has turned an eye-searing shade of lime green, like he'd doused himself in chlorine and then turned the intensity up to eleven.

It seems like Jonny is the only one left out of it – but as he steps through the bench door and off the ice, Patrick sees him jolt and then shudder, full body, like someone stuck a handful of snow down the front of his pants. Patrick immediately follows him into the locker room, watching like a hawk, but just as he thinks Jonny's about to swap out his helmet for a cap, Coach Q slams through the door.

"Kane!" He barks. "Front and center!"

Patrick absolutely does _not_ squeak. He also doesn't have to step forward, as his team all hastily sit down in their stalls, leaving him standing alone. Traitors. He folds his hands behind his back and tries not to cringe.

"Yes, Coach?"

"What did you _do_?"

"Uh…"

" _Think_." Q's moustache bristles – literally, the ends standing up and waving in the air like an angry anemone. He looks around, meeting every player's eyes. "I've been in the NHL for almost forty years. This is not the strangest thing I've seen." His gaze snaps back to Patrick. "But I need to know if there's anything else in the works. Have you talked to any strangers lately? Eaten any unfamiliar fruit? Seen a shooting star?"

Patrick's mental goal horn goes off. He chews his lip and admits, "I may have tossed a coin in a wishing well yesterday?"

Q rubs a hand over his eyes. "Perfect. What the hell did you wish for?"

"…that the media would stop hating on my mullet," Patrick mumbles. There's an immediate chorus of groans, and a couple of the guys chuck their wadded up stick tape in his direction. "I didn't think it'd turn out like _this!_ "

"No one ever does," Q says. "Did you wish for anything else?"

"Well…I…"

"Wait!" Jonny stands up and fixes Patrick with a look. "There's only one thing you would actually wish for, right now, right?"

"Well, duh." Patrick turns just so he can roll his eyes at Jonny. "The mullet thing was kind of an afterthought."

"And you didn't tell anyone what you wished for between then and now?"

"Of course not! Everyone knows if you tell what you wished, it won't come true."

" _Exactly._ " Jonny looks around the room, then at Q. "Coach, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I really, really don't think Kaner should tell us."

Q rubs a hand soothingly over his moustache, which has finally calmed down and is laying flat against his upper lip as though nothing happened. Patrick eyes it, wary. He always suspected that thing had it out for him.

"Good point, Toews." He claps his hands together once, sharply. "Post-practice debrief is cancelled for today, in light of the circumstances. I want everyone back tomorrow and prepared to work, haircuts or no haircuts."

There's a scattered chorus of "Yes, Coach!" and "Yessir," and most of the guys start to shuffle out, a few of them still chirping each other, Duncs holding onto the end of Seabs' braid like a leash. Patrick takes his time changing out of his gear, keeping a weather eye on Jonny, until the two of them are the last two left in the room. Then he sits down in his stall and stares until Jonny – who has otherwise gotten himself back into street clothes – stops fiddling with his helmet strap and looks up from his iPod. Jonny raises an eyebrow at him.

"You need something?"

"Nope! Just waiting for you, buddy." Patrick grins and drums his heels against the floor, more than prepared to wait Jonny out. To his surprise, Jonny just sighs and tugs his helmet off, revealing –

Huh. Patrick might actually be a bit disappointed. Jonny usually keeps his hair short during the season, but now it's been buzzed almost to his scalp and dyed a fairly unobtrusive shade of lilac.

"It's not actually that bad," Patrick tells him, frowning a little. "You and Teuvo kind of match, even. Were you going to let him suffer alone?"

Jonny hunches his shoulders. "That's not the bad part.

Patrick blinks.

Blinks again.

"Oh. My. God." Patrick can't keep the grin off his face as he pops to his feet and darts over to stand in front of Jonny. "Jonny. Jonathan. _Tazer_. Are you telling me that dye job goes _all the way down?_ "

Jonny flushes red and glares up at him. This might be the best day of Patrick's life.

"Let me see!" he demands. He drops to his knees and goes for the waistband of Jonny's shorts. Jonny yelps and bats his hands away.

"We agreed we weren't going to do anything during playoffs!"

"It's not playoffs until Saturday," Patrick whines. "And just because I wanna see your dick doesn't mean I wanna do anything with it. Come on, Jonny, Jonnyjonnyjonny – "

"Arghhhh." Jonny gives in and lifts his hips, letting Patrick pull his shorts down his thighs. His briefs come with them, revealing that – yep. The curtains match the drapes. They've even been shaved into the shape of an arrow, pointing straight down at Jonny's junk. Jonny covers his face with his hands as Patrick rests his elbows on Jonny's knees and cracks up.

"This isn't funny!" Jonny hisses. "You turned my pubes _purple!_ "

"You're right," Patrick sobers and looks up, clasping his hands under his chin. "It's not funny. It's a message."

"A message?"

"From the hockey gods! Jonny, they are literally pointing me straight to your dick, I don't know how much clearer you want this to get."

"Why would the hockey gods care if we have sex during playoffs?"

"Ours is not to question, but to obey," Patrick intones, and ducks down to lick a broad stripe along the top of Jonny's cock. Jonny makes a strangled noise, one hand flying up to grab at the back of Patrick's head. Patrick licks him again, then delicately draws the tip into his mouth, sucking gently at the tender skin as Jonny starts to get hard, the head of his cock peeking out from his foreskin.

"Hey, little buddy," Patrick grins. "Long time no see."

"Your way of showing affection toward my dick is kind of disturbing," Jonny complains. "Also, it's been less than forty-eight hours."

"The fact that you were counting proves my point," Patrick says and gets back to work. Jonny grumbles, pulling his hair in retaliation, but Patrick puts a stop to that by tucking the head of Jonny's cock into his cheek, rubbing it gently against the soft skin until Jonny has to muffle his groans with the side of his fist.

"You make…a compelling argument," he admits between gasps. Patrick chuckles around him, which earns him a moan and Jonny's hips shoving up, trying to fuck deeper into Patrick's mouth.

"Patience, patience," Patrick pulls off to scold, and then gives his words the lie by swallowing Jonny down to the root. His nose presses right against the tip of the arrow, everything lined up like it was planned. The noise Jonny makes, and the tightening of his hand in his hair, tell Patrick that he likes that visual just as much as Patrick does: Patrick tucked down safe between Jonny's legs, right where he belongs, putting his mouth to the best use it has (besides chewing his mouth guard and licking the Cup, anyway).

"M'not gonna last," Jonny mumbles, as Patrick bobs up to take a breath and then down again, smooth as he can. "Please, babe, don't make me wait."

 _Won't,_ Patrick wants to say, and _Never._ He tries to convey it with lips and tongue, instead, covering his teeth and rubbing them against the length of Jonny's cock, just the way Jonny likes. Jonny shifts, his thighs trembling after their workout with the effort of holding back, so Patrick scoots a bit further forward and tucks his hands under Jonny's ass. _It's okay. Go ahead._

Jonny thrusts up once, testing, and when Patrick urges him forward again he just goes for it, fists a hand in Patrick's hair and fucks his cock down Patrick's throat like he'll die if he doesn't come this very instant. It's gratifying, flattering, even more so when Jonny tugs Patrick up to take a gasping breath and then shoves him back down again, stretching Patrick's lips wide around the base of his cock over and over. Patrick rolls his hips, frantically rubbing off against the inside of his shorts until finally, finally Jonny pulls back and floods Patrick's mouth with the taste of him.

Jonny relaxes his grip, giving Patrick the chance to pull off; he still hasn't figured out that Patrick, really, honestly loves this part, loves savoring the salt-bitter tang of a job well done and cleaning Jonny off afterward, lapping at Jonny's slit until he's gotten every drop he can. Jonny scrubs his hand through Patrick's hair, thanks and affection and exasperation all at once.

"Need a hand?"

"Ah…not this time," Patrick pants, resting his forehead against the inside of Jonny's knee.

Jonny's eyebrow goes up again. "Need a washcloth? New shorts?"

"Oh, fuck off." Patrick swats at his thing. "You get a blowjob _and_ you have to do literally no work afterwards, the least you can do is help me myself clean up."

"This summer," Jonny promises. "Just wait. You, me, your new cock ring. Gonna make you regret ever trying to convince me your hair trigger was a blessing to our sex life."

Patrick grins up at him. "Well, then. Guess I'd just better hope that summer doesn't come to soon."


End file.
